Emerson Page and Where the Light Enters

By Christa Avampato

Thirteen-year-old Emerson Page wants to know what happened to her mother, Nora, a world-renowned anthropologist well-known for her research on ancient cultures and languages. Five years ago, Nora was found on the steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

"We've never seen anything like it," said the NYPD. "It's as if she just fell asleep on the steps of the museum and never woke up." Eventually, the police gave up their search for answers. But Emerson didn't.

Her journey to discover the answers about her mother's mysterious death takes her deep below the streets of New York City on a dangerous adventure into a magical world of books. There, she learns the stunning truth about her mother and her own destiny to continue her mother's legacy.

Time is running out. An alarming threat looms large and too close to home. With the very existence of human imagination at stake, can Emerson find the strength to fulfill her mother's final wish before it's too late?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Possibilities Publishing
• Release date: Nov 1, 2017

Book preview

PROLOGUE

"I want this one," said Emerson as she stood in front of her mother, Nora. Emerson’s arms were wrapped around a thick book that measured half her height. She could barely hold it as she grinned from ear to ear. The book was bound in sturdy, chocolate-colored leather, and the edges of the pages were gilded with gold.

"The History of the Muses," read Nora from the cover of the book.

It’s my favorite! Emerson said as she plunked the book into her mother’s lap.

She climbed into her bed, and nestled herself right into the crook of her mother’s arm. With her hair twirled on top of her head into a massive bun and wearing her favorite pajamas that depicted the whole solar system, Emerson was in the mood for more than just a story tonight. She wanted to play a game, and show her mother that she was the cleverest 8-year-old in the world.

I have an idea! said Emerson. Her outburst made her mother laugh. Why don’t you test me tonight instead of just reading to me?

Test you? asked Nora, amused by her daughter’s playfulness.

You ask me questions and I’ll get every one right.

Nora arched one of her eyebrows and Emerson copied her facial expression. Every question? Nora asked.

Every. Single. One, said Emerson.

You’re on, said Nora with a smile. Tell me—who are the muses?

Goddesses from Greek mythology who inspire creativity. Nora’s smile grew wider.

And who do they inspire?

Everyone who wants to be inspired, said the girl as she threw open her arms.

And how do we get inspiration from them?

We just ask for it.

Nora opened her eyes wide. And then? she asked.

Emerson got very serious. We have to listen.

Exactly, said Nora. How many muses are there?

Nine.

What are their names?

Calliope, Clio, Erato, Euterpe, Melpomene, Polyhymnia, Terpsichore, Thalia, and Ourania, Emerson said in one breath.

And what kind of inspiration does each muse give to people who ask for their help? asked Nora.

Emerson closed her eyes, put both of her hands on the sides of her head, and imagined each muse exactly as she appeared in the book that now sat in her mother’s lap. She imagined the silky, heavy pages that made every picture look like a piece of fine art. The colors were so vibrant it seemed like they were glowing. On one page was a picture of one of the muses and the opposite page explained what types of creativity that muse inspired. The following chapter after the picture and description told stories of who that muse inspired and what they created with her help. Emerson took a deep breath and began.

Calliope is the leader of the muses and she inspires authors, she said. Clio is an expert in history.

In her mind, Emerson always put these two muses together because they inspire the great storytellers, the authors who capture history as it happens.

Euterpe helps musicians and singers who entertain other people, she continued. Polyhymnia also helps musicians, but only the ones who make music to help people think more deeply about their lives.

When Emerson learned about the difference between Euterpe and Polyhymnia, she started to listen to music differently. In the end, she thought these two worked well together.

Thalia believes in laughter and gives jokes to people who want to be funny, Emerson said with a slight giggle. Melpomene is the opposite. She helps people tell sad stories so they can get them off their chest and feel better.

Taking a pause, Emerson cracked open an eye to see if her mother was smiling at her. Nora wore an expression of pride, so Emerson continued with excitement, knowing she had almost done it.

Terpsichore is the really good dancer. Erato believes in the power of love. And Ourania’s the one who’s a little different than all the others because she focuses on science, especially the stars.

Emerson opened her eyes with a relieved sigh. I did it!

Nora threw her head back and laughed. My sweet, smart girl. You are a wonder. Now one last question.

I’m ready!

What are you made of?

Emerson smiled. She loved this question. Stardust and light.

And?

And love. Lots of love.

Nora’s expression suddenly changed. Her eyes filled up with tears, and that made Emerson nervous. Had she done something wrong?

Mom, why are you crying? she asked her mother. Nora took Emerson’s face in her hands and looked her in the eye.

I want you to know how very much I love you. Everything I do, now and always, I’m doing for you, Emerson. They smiled at each other. Emerson knew how much her mother loved her. She put her hands on her mother’s cheeks.

And, Mom, I want you to know how very much I love you, Emerson said smiling. And everything I do, I do for you!

This made her mother laugh, which is exactly what she wanted it to do. But she also meant it. Every word. Her mother was her favorite person. She closed her eyes and yawned.

You tired? Nora asked. Emerson nodded. All of a sudden, she felt incredibly sleepy.

She slowly crawled under the covers, and looked up at her mother to say their traditional goodnight together, holding hands.

The light that is in me honors the light that is in you. Nora kissed Emerson on the forehead.

Goodnight, Emerson.

Goodnight, Mom. See you in the morning.

Nora lingered for another moment, got up from the edge of the bed, and went downstairs. After a few minutes, Emerson heard her father come home just as she was about to drift off to sleep.

Are you ready? he asked Nora.

I just have one more thing I need to do, she said.

Nora, we’re running out of time, he said.

I know. I’m sorry. I just forgot to do something this afternoon and I need to take care of it.

Now? he asked, clearly getting angry.

Yes. Like you said, we’re running out of time.

Okay, he said. But hurry. Please.

I won’t be long, she said. I love you.

Emerson opened her eyes and wrinkled her forehead. She looked at the clock on her nightstand. It was almost 9:00pm. Where was her mother going? What did she need to do now? And why were they running out of time? These questions filled her mind, but her eyes grew too heavy. Though she tried to stay awake, sleep proved more powerful and carried her away into the world of her imagination.

CHAPTER 1

SOMETHING OLD IS NEW

The approach to Stargrass Paper & Books on Broadway just past 96th Street was a well-trodden path. New Yorkers ran to catch a train, to get home, or to step out for the night. They always had somewhere to be, and they were always late. Emerson Page consciously rolled her feet from heel to toe as if she could make her footprints appear in the long-since-dried cement of the sidewalk. That muscle memory created the breadcrumbs to help her find her way home if she needed them. The oversized backpack stuffed with school books and papers made her petite frame look even smaller. Though many of her eighth-grade friends hated slogging their books from home to school and back again, Emerson didn’t mind. She imagined those books and her cat-eye glasses as shields, protecting her from anything that might harm her. Even on a balmy September day like today, she knew trouble could find her at any moment. She had experienced that too often to be fooled into believing otherwise.

Emerson’s intense anxiety since her mother’s death five years ago often paralyzed her mind and body. Having well-defined paths to familiar, safe places was a tool she learned to manage through anxiety when it arrived. Her faithful service dog, Friday, helped, too. A sturdy and sleek hound dog with serious herding tendencies, he matched her stride, as always, with the same concerted effort that Emerson used. Today’s whispery breeze rippled through his feathery, brindled coat the same way it tousled Emerson’s long, wavy hair.

On a drab, mostly gray block, Stargrass’s intricately carved emerald green wooden doors depicted dozens of golden hummingbirds flying up toward the sky. Emerson longed to grow her own wings and fly with them. She’d love to rise so high that she could shrink the mammoth buildings of New York that spent all their time making everyone here feel small.

With all her strength, she pulled open one of the Stargrass doors. Friday helped by using his muzzle against the inside of the door. A waft of jasmine and sweet orange rolled over them. Something was brewing inside. Probably tea. Maybe something more.

Emerson passed Jasper Peacock, the owner of Stargrass, on her way to the rare book section. Jasper, in his tidy tweed vest with his signature pocket watch chain looped in front, stood behind his mammoth mahogany desk. His rimless half-glasses were perched halfway down his long, narrow nose, giving him a wise and professorial aura. As always, he was surrounded by open books, and today he was deep in conversation with an older woman whom Emerson recognized from the neighborhood. She had privately nicknamed the woman the levitating lady because she seemed to float down the street every time Emerson saw her. She always wore a lightweight ankle-length jacket the color of lilacs that swayed effortlessly with her every movement. It gave her the grace of a dancer. Like Emerson, the levitating lady had a slight frame, made to appear even smaller by Jasper’s towering height.

As she watched them, Emerson noticed that the woman had a fire to her that made her seem larger than she was. The deep lines in her face showed she was thoughtful and curious while her wispy, cropped gray hair conveyed her experience.

At the top of the steps that led down into the rare books section like a sunken living room, Emerson let her eyes sweep across the shelves from left to right. They cradled an elegant hodgepodge of books as they climbed the walls like tangled vines on a trellis. Emerson was certain those bookcases would take her into the clouds if not for the stained-glass skylight of the galaxy that capped the entire store. The shelves were dotted with metal plaques of inspirational quotes about the power of books:

We get to know a book the way we get to know a person: one page, one secret at a time.

Hold a book with great care; remember that’s a piece of someone’s soul is in your hands.

We don’t choose the books we love; they choose us.

Emerson took in these words like other people take in air. The whole place had a soothing glow about it that transported people into a new world where anything was possible. Stargrass was Oz for book lovers. For Emerson, it was home.

Emerson and Friday wound their way through the maze of books, letting their eyes roam freely up and down the heavily stacked shelves. She ran her hands over their covers and felt them breathe. Like old friends who fear they may never see each other again, books conveyed a sense of urgency to her. She felt they needed her to know the truths and dreams they held. Though Emerson was only thirteen-years-old, long-dead authors rolled out the red carpet for her. She was the audience of one they needed, the one they had been waiting for.

One small volume with a jewel-encrusted spine made Emerson stop short. She adjusted the thick frame of her glasses to get a closer look. She couldn’t remember ever seeing this book before. It was just below one of her favorite quotes: Books can be a light in the darkness.

She lifted the book from the shelf and used her index finger to trace the intricate filigree pattern imprinted into the cerulean cover. Strumming its gold-tipped pages, she caught a flutter of a musty scent that could only come from a book closed for a very long time. Her smile beamed, her eyes widened, and her mind opened to its possibilities.

Hello, friend, she whispered.

Your mother loved that one, too, when she was your age, said Jasper as he reshelved another book nearby.

Emerson jumped, startled as much by Jasper’s deep voice as she was by the mention of her mother. When she turned to face him, she saw the levitating lady beside him. Standing next to her, Emerson realized that they were almost the same size. Friday protectively positioned himself between the woman and Emerson. The woman arched her eyebrow, staring directly at Friday, and he didn’t budge. She extended her open hand under his snout for him to sniff. He did, and then relaxed. The woman smiled.

Emerson, this is an old friend of mine, said Jasper. Emerson Page, please meet Irene Dorchester.

Irene cocked her head to one side as if inspecting a specimen. Her squat eyeglasses had a handle that she used to hold them to her eyes. Emerson thought she saw the handle briefly turn from black to red.

Jasper was right, said Irene. You are so like your mother.

You knew her? asked Emerson.

From the time she was born, said Irene. Your mother is a remarkable woman.

Emerson looked down at the ground. Was, she said. My mother died five years ago.

She just crossed over, Emerson, said Irene. I’m certain you’ll see her again.

Emerson half-smiled, painfully familiar with every kind of sympathy line that could be offered to someone who had lost her mother too soon.

Where did you get those glasses? asked Emerson, trying to change the subject.

Truman made these for me. One of his many inventions.

Now Emerson tilted her head to one side, confused and surprised. Truman was a friend of Skylar, Jasper’s eighteen-year-old granddaughter and Emerson’s best friend. He worked at the Crooked Willow Café down the street. He made a perfect cup of hot chocolate, but she had no idea he was an inventor.

So intriguing, Irene said peering more intently at Emerson through her glasses as the handle now pulsed red. What a lucky combination to have your mother’s heart and your father’s mind.

How do you know my father? asked Emerson.

We’ve worked together for a long time, said Irene. He’s one of the most brilliant detectives I know.

He’s not a real detective. He just finds books and pieces of art that have been stolen.

Well, what better things to recover than books and art?

Irene, said Jasper, I’ll let you know what my contacts discover. It may take us some time to find what you need, but we’ll get it.

Time is not promised to anyone, Irene said to Jasper. You know that. The faster you can find that text, the better.

Irene turned her attention to Emerson. It was a pleasure to finally meet you, she said. I’ve been a great admirer of your parents for some time. And if I were you, I’d commit that book in your hands to memory. The world needs more people who understand its message. Especially now.

Irene smiled again before she glided effortlessly up the stairs and out through the front door.

How do you know her? Emerson asked Jasper.

Irene and I went to school together, so you can just imagine how long we’ve been friends, he said. She’s a gifted doctor and a voracious collector of ancient medical books.

You find those kinds of books for her?

We never find the books we need, Emerson, said Jasper. "They

find us."

Why does she collect ancient medical books and not new ones? Don’t you want the latest information when it comes to medicine?

She treats very rare diseases, ones that are best served by ancient methods rather than modern ones. I’ve never heard of an ailment she can’t fix. Once when I was very ill a number of years back, she gave me this ring.

Jasper adjusted the black onyx ring on his finger. The stone was so large that Emerson could clearly see her entire face reflected in it. She couldn’t remember him ever being without it. Now that she looked at it more closely, she could see a red flame continuously swirling deep

inside it.

I don’t think a ring can keep you from getting sick, she said.

Why not?

It’s just something you wear, said Emerson. It doesn’t actually do anything. I mean, it’s beautiful, but it’s just a ring.

Maybe the work it does just can’t be seen, said Jasper. I can’t see love or friendship or kindness, but I know they exist because I can feel them. And what I can feel is more real than anything.

Emerson smiled at that.

How did Irene know my mother? she asked.

Your mother was known and loved by so many people, said Jasper.

Because of her work?

Because of who she was. She had a terribly difficult life, but she never gave up on love, even when she had every reason to. She believed in love more than she believed in anything. It takes courage to love in a world that tries its best to make you do anything but.

Why does Irene think I should memorize this book? asked Emerson.

Books have taken Irene and me all over the world, said Jasper. Books will take you anywhere if you let them.

I can’t wait until I’m old enough to have real adventures like you and Irene.

You don’t have to wait, Emerson, said Jasper. Adventure is everywhere.

But how do I know where to find adventure?

If you want life to be an adventure, said Jasper, you have to be willing to open the doors you think you can’t open.

Someday, Emerson told herself. Someday.

The church bells at St. Michael’s chimed loud